Double Entendres
by Marly King
Summary: “Between the two of you, saying ‘thank you’ has a history for not necessarily meaning what the dictionary says it should mean.” Sakura/Sasuke.


Double Entendres 

**By**_: Boh Miyung_

_Edited Version!  
_

**--**

**Pairings. **Sakura/Sasuke..however, this is mostly Sakura-centric.

**Summary. "**Between the two of you, saying 'thank you' has a history for not necessarily meaning what the dictionary says it to mean." Sakura/Sasuke.

**A/N… **Because symbolism is everything. : ) I put a lot of effort into this, and please, ask questions or leave criticism. I want to improve! I'm not very good at romance scenes; by the way…

A double entendre is when a phrase or word has two meanings, both can be correct depending on your interpretation.

**DISCLAIMER**… I do not own Naruto…or any of its characters/creations.

--

"We should get going, Sakura," Sasuke says, his voice muffled by the low and heavy _pitter-patter _of storming rain.

It's a day in which the rain comes in gathered puffs and heaves, storming angrily for a few minutes, lessens, and then returns like a typical summer temper-tantrum. Too spontaneous to guess when the hot rain will come or stay, Konoha retreats within its warm homes and dry buildings. Another summer storm (rather needed, those sakura and magnolia flowers could use watering, leaves withering from lack of previous attention).

Training was obviously canceled; Naruto had disappeared before the rain ("Hinata asked me to stop by!" He says); and you and your tall-dark-and-handsome teammate foolishly continued to clash kunai against kunai in the rain. Eventually though, your mother-minded persistence deflects away his warrior's resistance. "_Sasuke, _we'll become sick in this weather!"

"Hn," he ignores you for as long as he can, leaning forward to stretch his aching legs.

"We need to go inside, we can't train like this," you lean away, hands stationed on hips, so stubborn. He takes his time rising, graceful and fluid as the curling grass beneath the steady raindrops. (You resist reaching out to help him up because there's some things you just can't allow anymore).

Because he lives closer to the training grounds or because he just wanted to go home, you end up in his apartment, where you awkwardly watch him go into the kitchen of his apartment. Something about tea, he said.

Idly sitting on a sagging couch, shivering in damp clothing, you wonder the unanswered—but you haven't asked it yet, and he silently welcomed you inside—question, _why am I here? _In all of Uchiha Sasuke's arctic glory, you have never been inside—least of all welcomed.

Then again, you haven't said much to him or seen him frequently in years.

Strangely, alone in the living room of your twice-made-teammate (which is furnished with too much dark and leather and wood, so male, so unlike your pinks and whites and fabrics), racks you with nerves and anxiety, still unable to voice your question. _Really, Sakura, why are you here? _

Nervousness around him is constant, what infatuated you to begin with —leading to fear after his betrayal and before his return—and ended (or is present, really) with unease. He has stayed in Konoha for eleven months, the first four or so in which you avoided him, he ignored you, and all was easy. Then suddenly, around month five, he wants back in to your life – according to Naruto, self-proclaimed Hokage of Ramen. Though Sasuke never tells you this or anything else, there's been a change. This time, unwanted. Regardless of his unvoiced opinion and only subtlety changed actions—not unlike the bitter taste of decaffeinated coffee as opposed to regular bitter coffee—it's difficult, you think. It's always been difficult around Sasuke – a constant, reminding you of the identical scars on your abdomen and lower back, courtesy of Akatsuki's Sasori, which would never completely heal. Sometimes thing really never change.

"Here," he says, "drink." A tray, holding two dark, ceramic mugs and a plate of rice crackers, settles with a small, careful _clink _on his low mahogany table, making more noise than normal due to the pin-dropping-silent atmosphere. You make no move for the tea, still shivering from your damp clothing and soaking hair – not because of discomfort. Of course not. But rather because of the cold. He regards you pointedly, a man of few words and polite, frigid restraint, and you, with arms cross tightly, protectively around your petite frame and unbound chest, does not say anything. Between the two of you, 'thank you' has a history for not necessarily meaning what the dictionary says it should.

Under his hot black-oolong-tea gaze, disconcertingly unreadable, and you mumble something about being wet or cold, all the while trying to break eye-contact because you suddenly feel like crying. After so much time and effort to avoid this, him, and everything else, you don't know how to react or respond to being so close, knees almost brushing. You did not prepare yourself, pre-visualize this.

And the tightening in your chest is all too familiar. Funny, you thought that feeling or reaction to this stoic, pretty-eyed boy was dead.

Then the eye-contact is gone. Because Sasuke does not waste much of anything, especially not words, he rises quietly from the couch. His is imprint left behind in the worn cushion next to you, and he disappears into the adjoining room. Returning to see you haven't moved or touched the tea (with possibly a ghost of a smile on his angular face, slightly awkward from lack of use), he hands you a bundle of fabric that resembles his own clothing.

Slightly alarmed, you ask, "What is this?"

"Clothes. Give me yours once you've changed. I'll put them away to dry." Again, the quiet ghost raises the corners of his mouth slightly, most likely amused at you, gaping like a koi fish (eyes just as wide).

Having Sasuke, who is not on a mission and you are technically not his teammate while off the training field (_professional, _Sakura, _professional_), obviously attempting to take care of someone, _you_, is unnerving—different in a way that is different even for Sasuke. Gingerly, you take the clothes, pushing past to the connected bedroom.

His bedroom is quiet and impersonal. There is a double bed with a navy quilt, a chest of drawers, a nightstand with two frames, an unlit lamp. Sparse and to the point. The room is obviously Sasuke's. Through the large window of his apartment, you can see that the summer shower is manifesting its tantrum to a full, blown-out storm. There is no leaving, not now.

Still horribly cold, your skin pale and covered in goose-bumps, you quickly change into the too-large slate-colored shirt (trying not to remember when exactly he had last worn it to training) and the baggy, black flannel pants. You take off your Konoha-forehead protector and untied your hair. Your hair, that pale pink color which promised spring, is much darker, heavy from rainwater like ripened persimmon.

Eyeing the bed as you tie to waistband of the pants, you wonder if anyone other than he has slept there. As tired as you are, you don't think of sleeping there, actually, if he asked you to wait out the storm. Heat like embers stir beneath your stomach, a rush between slender thighs.

You clench the hem of his shirt tightly. This is Sasuke, you think, he's the type of man to leave the woman's apartment early in the morning. "No," you whisper out-loud, trying to dismiss the growing fire, flickering from the pit in your hips and burning all the way to your fingers and chest.

Still shivering a little (but not quite from the cold, anymore) you place a hand on the brass door knob, ignoring the slight jolt that shocks your hand from the charged metal. Craning your neck to the left at the mirror, it's odd to see yourself in a man's clothing, the shirt reaching to your thighs. On the sleeves, designed short but falling near your elbows, is the red-white fan. Only Uchihas wear this fan.

You swallow. And you reenter the den.

"Sasuke," you murmur to announce your return, standing in front of him in his own clothes.

He looks up from his spot on the couch, an odd expression dawning across his face. "Are you warmer now?" His voice sounds slightly raspy, unlike his typical clear, low voice.

"A little," you reply sheepishly, the unease settling into a semi-familiar nervousness, crossing over the room in seven even sweeps, each one brining you back to your once-removed teammate and the sagging couch. Each one a little longer than its last.

Settling back into your former seat—distancing your knee ever so slightly from his—you reach for you tea, ready at last. So is he, ready that is, his hand possibly-accidentally grazing across yours. Both of you pause, suddenly meeting his oolong eyes, quizzical in expression while his face remains like stone. You know your face is flushing a little, that you don't know what to say any more than you did when he first returned to Konoha. Your stomach flips and you can feel warmth in your face and rhythm in your lower stomach, leaving the rest of your body standing on edge. Despite the original distance you had carefully arranged between you and he, his knee brushes your. Your hands are still barely touching, resting on top of the table, hesitant to move.

This wasn't planned, wasn't supposed to happen. Not _now. _Should have _then._

"Sorry," you tell him, fumbling for more words. And you pride yourself for eloquence. You're sorry again, like you used to be when your hair was still long. _You're still sorry, for him? _Echoes of past apologies flitter across your mind. These thoughts bring you back to your original worry—why are you here, Sakura? You look back to your hand (touching his) and the two untouched mugs of cooling tea.

You move slowly away from your mug of tea, hesitantly resting your shaking hand (the cold is seeping back into your skin) in the safety of your lap. It's all you can do not to drown in oolong, afraid to take a sip. After a long exhale from your side, you look at Sasuke, surprised that your tentative action received notice. His expression is frustrated; his is not looking at you.

And the panic begins to tangle with the dread of cold. Without even trying, you shudder as a chill tingles down your spine, and probably will again because there is a draft and th—

And your troubled mind goes blank for the first time in (too long) a long time.

A warm, muscular arm tucks you into his side, not-so-gently nudging you into his chest. The action isn't a question—Uchiha Sasuke does not ask questions. You shudder once more (because going from cold to warm causes reactions, your medic-mind argues, not because your head is resting against his clavicle and his large, warm hand is steady on your hip and he's inhaling and you can tell). His grip tightens.

"Sasuke," you start, his name falling thick on your tongue.

"Sa-ku-ra," he murmurs into your hair, his breath lingering on your scalp. This is exactly what you want_ed _but don't want.

"I need to go."

"There's nowhere to go. It's raining."

"But, I need to go outsi—" and you stop, feeling a fire growing just beneath your earlobe, the strangest sensation that spreads down your spine into the bottom of your stomach, makes your half-lidded eyes go wide. You can almost hear the words Ino told you not too long ago—right around the time Sasuke stopped ignoring you.

"_Don't let yourself care about someone that won't love back. But…if he does…"_

But Ino's not here, not sitting next to you watching him work his way lower down your next and under your chin, lips dragging over delicate skin. Ino's not here to decipher his movements nor intentions. All that you can do is remain frozen, waiting to wake from this well-dreamt dream.

"Ah!" You jerk slightly, ninja or not, as he quickly nips your earlobe, dragging it between his teeth. If you were afraid of him touching you before (_heart rate too fast, stomach on fire, breathing hitched, can't focus, can't think) _because you were worried about forgotten emotions, than you vaguely think that was nothing to this.

Before you can really react, the arm that is wrapped around your shoulder moves, his hand slowly linking into your hair. You look at him, and at once his nose brushes against your cheekbone leaving you to drown in oolong, he in green-jasmine, burning shut as his lips come to yours.

Despite his earlier advances, the arm, the neck, the knees—he is amateur. His mouth is slightly-open, half-closed, but you don't notice so much the awkwardness, the initial _–click _of teeth, but rather the feral drive exploding in your lower stomach for _more, more, more. _It's been too long.

For a kunoichi with perfect chakra control and excellent professionalism, you can't hold back. It feels too good, too bittersweet, too warm to let go as you press forward, taking anything that is given. You link an arm around his neck, slim fingers tangling in his dark hair; you previously idle hand sliding under his shirt, nails dragging over his bare chest. He kisses harder, tongue and teeth, his hands finding similar places to hide. He's pushing forward, pressing you down onto the seat of the couch.

You've never been in this position of such a free kunoichi, legs pulled apart, one pinned against the back of the couch, another lingers off the edge, toes barely scrapping over the floor. He settles onto your torso and one of his legs overlaps, straddling off the couch, foot completely on the floor. You sink further into the couch and Sasuke's weight—warm and heavy on against your chest and pelvis, cancels all thought. You aren't thinking of how odd it is for Sasuke to have invited you in (he never does anything without a motive), why you are here (in his clothes, on his couch, under him like a girl who's done this before), or why Naruto winked at you before he left, sharing an uncharacteristic smirk with the Uchiha.

Instead, you feel. An extra, hot, hard pressure pushes against your thigh; his lips dominating yours, hungry; his hands reach far beyond cloth barriers. And what you feel is too good, too stimulating—thinking things you haven't thought of doing with Sasuke in so, so long. You startle him, grabbing the belt of his pants, surprising both him and you.

He rises above you; your noses almost touch, breath mingling. Still touching, but there worlds are yet again pulled apart.

"Sakura," he whispers, a dawn of awareness shadowing in the angles of his face. Obviously, he realizes now what he initiated—that you gave in—and that he was to break it off. Conflicted, he turns his head, inhales.

Exhales. "Sorry."

_(For what, Sasuke, for what?) _

"Sasu—"

"Thank you, Sakura. I'm sorry."

Never has he looked more magnificent, with only the dim light of a lamp to illuminate the room, casting shadows over the two of you, hiding what-could-have-been. And this raven-haired god is once again rejecting you, the loving, spineless fan-girl who would, _do anything._

Funny, you had thought that the roles had been finally reversed.

As he slides off of you (leaving in a well-known fashion of rejection and causing a not quite-so-familiar physical reaction), finally do you speak, yell, become angry, cry, _do something not demure. _No more thank you, meaning nothing that it should.

"I hate you!" You half-sob, half-cry, once again startling both of you.

"Sakura? Wha—" you cut him off, unlike every other rejection from him; however, like every other rejection, tears are already salty, blinding your vision and sight as you speak.

--_hair tangled, shirt wrinkled, face flushed, lips sore, painfully unsatisfied—_

"I hate you! You hurt me, you left me, you used me, you kissed me, and now you leave again? What will happen next Sasuke?" No more thank you without explaining.

Between the look on his face, shocked and ashamed (but distorted by tears, Sakura. Don't look into it again) and horrid, muscle-deteriorating ache in your chest, you feel as useless and weary—so tired—as you did upon his first depart.

You stand to leave, walking three sweeps across the wooden floor before he stops you. He grabs your wrist, towering in front of you. For not the first time, you look up to him.

"Don't."

"Why am I ever here, Sasuke?" You finally ask, each word falling off your lip like lead, slowly and painfully.

He doesn't answer. But his grip does not waver, and he continues to glare—it's a bad habit, really.

"Thank you, Sasuke, for inviting me in."

You tell him this, meaning none of it. Too tired to talk, really.

As you try to retrieve your wrist from his tight lock (typically of a shinobi, holding onto prey), he says it again, "Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Don't hate me. Sakura." He looks at you, you look at him. Both uncertainly. Please, he rasps even though Uchihas do not ask or beg or whisper.

"Don't leave," he mutters. "I'm sorry."

It's been too long, waiting for this, waiting for an apology to be received. The eight year old child that you used to know, the twelve-year-old boy who was your teammate, they are asking, begging, pleading. You know he should have done this long ago; that you've spent too many nights awake for him and too many hours wasted thinking about him, not your friends, not yourself.

"Sasuke-kun? It's okay. Thank you." You reach up high, shyly sliding your arms around his neck.

Surprised, with shadows beaten under his eyes, he might be smiling because you called him "Sasuke-kun" but you can't see his face, just can guess.

He kisses you again, speaking in his own, shy, scared way—he is still scarred, but for now, he's letting you in. Softly, he guides you from the exiting door because the storm is not yet over. Instead, he leads you to his small dark-and-leather-and-wood bedroom.

He breaks the kiss and replies, meaning something entirely different than the last time,

"Thank you, Sakura."

--

**End A/N: **Not sure how much I like this. Please comment or give suggestions, but please no flames. Thank you! (No double entendre here!)


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